5 Sherlolly Touches
by DemonClowSorceress
Summary: Five moments between the detective and pathologist, each centered around an unexpected touch. Rating may change.
1. Hand

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_.**

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 **Five Touches**

 **By: DemonClowSorceress**

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 **Hand**

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Dr. Molly Hooper was just finishing up her last autopsy write-up when the sound of breaking glass echoed through the morgue. She stuck her head outside her office and peered around the morgue. "Hello?" she called out hesitantly. "Who's out there?"

"Over by the fume hood," answered a familiar baritone voice.

 _Sherlock?_ she though as a sense of dread started to creep in. "What broke?" Molly sighed as she began making her way across the morgue towards him.

"A beaker."

"Was it full of some sort of gooey or caustic or stain-causing substance?" The resulting silence only cemented her suspicions. "Sherlock..." growled Molly, rounding the corner of the examination table. There she found one Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, half-kneeling beside a growing puddle of an unknown brown-green fluid. "What the hell did you drop?" she gaped, crouching down beside him to survey the mess of broken glass and goop.

"A container of fresh bile and an empty beaker. I was attempting to measure some of the former into the latter for an experiment. It...slipped."

Molly gagged at the repugnant odor beginning to creep through the sterilized morgue air. "Sherlock, bile stinks for hours!"

"Which is why I am halting further experimentation so that I can begin cleaning it now," Sherlock said with some irritation. "Honestly Molly, even I am not so callous as to let you suffer the consequences of my actions."

"That's...very nice of you," Molly said warily. Bitter experience reminded her that Sherlock was only ever nice to her when he was gearing up to ask her something. Her eyes drifted down to watch his long latex-gloved fingers scoop up globs of gallbladder and bile. Feeling rather foolish, she began to straighten out of her crouch - then caught herself. "Sherlock, stop!"

But he either didn't hear her (possible, since he had tunnel vision at the oddest moments) or his reflexes were off (a distinct possibility, but not as probable) because although he looked up at her outburst, his hand kept moving. Specifically, it kept moving towards the two-inch shard of glass sticking up from the mess.

So really, Molly had no choice but to grab his hand to stop him. His eyes widened slightly in astonishment. Frankly, it made him look like a rather disheveled puppy.

"Pay attention, you clod," she snapped, covering her fluttery heartbeat with an exasperated sigh. "Or do you want to be treated for an infected laceration?"

Sherlock blinked twice, looked down at the shard of glass, and blinked a few more times. Molly recognized his buffering mode and waited patiently for him to process whatever had stumped his brain. While she did, she tried not to show how much she enjoyed holding his hand. Even through the organ slime and latex, she could feel its warmth...

 _Slime..._

"EW!" she screeched as she let go of Sherlock's hand. She bolted for the nearest sink and began scrubbing the coagulated slime off her palm. "And I have a date in an hour. This smell is never going to come off!"

When no response came from Sherlock, she dared to glance back. What she saw was surprising. Sherlock had abandoned the gooey mess on the floor and was currently mixing several liquids together on his lab bench. Her suspicions grew even more when, apparently satisfied with his concoction, he sidestepped the gooey puddle and strode over to offer the flask to her. "Use this. It will help with the smell."

Molly was hesitant to use anything whipped up by Sherlock Holmes (John still complained of certain burn patterns in the rug that directly resulted from such experimentations) but she also knew that she had no other alternatives. She reached out with her slime-free hand to take the flask from him, shivering when she felt the warmth of his gloveless hand. Careful to have water running in the sink, she carefully poured Sherlock's mystery potion over her hand.

Almost immediately the slime sloughed off like so much waste. "Amazing!" she gasped, immediately pumping hand soap to begin washing up. "And the smell is gone too! Fantastic!" Relieved beyond belief, she looked back at the consulting detective with a brilliant smile. "Thank you, Sherlock!"

He gave no reply, just turned on his heel and returned to cleaning up the mess on the floor. Molly didn't bother to puzzle over it. She had a date to get ready for.

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 **Yes yes, another Sherlock story while my other one lies incomplete. Blame the muse, fickle thing that she is.**

 **Review please!**


	2. Cheek

**Cheek**

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"E'scuse, but are you Doctor Who?"

Molly looked up from her phone in surprise. Of all the things she'd been called, never before had she been mistaken for a Gallifreyan Time Lord. "I beg your pardon?"

The speaker, a freckle-faced teenage girl, was staring at her with the oddest combination of awe, hope, and desperation. "Are you the Boss's Doctor Who?" The girl raised her hands as if to grab Molly and shake her, but they never moved. "Please ma'am, the Boss said she works 'ere in the morgue, wearin' scuffed trainers and big colorful jumpers, and you're wearin' tha - "

"Boss?" _If Boss is Sherlock, she must be_ _part of the homeless network._ "You mean Sherlock? Sherlock sent you?"

The girl heaved a relieved sigh. "You _are_ Doctor Who! You gotta come quick, the Boss needs ya." She grabbed Molly's lab coat and yanked impatiently. "He's callin' for ya."

Molly needed no more urging. Grabbing her purse, she followed the raggedy girl down a dozen or so of London's streets in search of Sherlock Holmes. Every step brought new, increasingly worrisome thoughts to Molly's mind. Why would he send one of his Irregulars? What could have happened to him that needed her to come right away? And why the _hell_ did this child call her as Doctor Who?

The Irregular brought her to down to Blackfriar's Pier. Molly wondered if they'd need to take the river bus, but they kept going, right past the pier and down to the river's edge. The mud sucked at her trainers with every step, but Molly pushed on. The Irregular pointed to a large lump on the shoreline. "He's there, ma'am. Pulled him from the water. Kept sayin' "Get Doctor Who, get Doctor Who..." and that's you."

Molly didn't need any more convincing. She recognized that Belstaff anywhere, sodden or otherwise.

Rolling overweight corpses on a semi-daily basis gave Molly exceptional upper body strength. Turning an unconscious Sherlock over on his back wasn't very difficult. She checked his vitals first, satisfied that he was out of danger, before scanning his body for injuries. Curses and promises tumbled from her lips in furious murmurs as her fingers moved over his chest in the most professional manner.

Suddenly he jerked under her hands, his eyelashes fluttering. "Doctor...Who...get Doctor Who..." he gasped out.

"Sherlock, I'm here. I'm here." Forgetting herself, Molly cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over his cheekbone.

"M-Molly?" His eyes cracked open with a shaky breath. "M-Molly Hoo..." Her name disappeared in a bout of choking coughs. Molly pushed him onto his side and slapped his back. A thin stream of filthy water came up with the next few coughs.

"Well that explains the whole 'Doctor Who' thing. Hard to talk with your lungs full of water." She rubbed his back as Sherlock dry-heaved a few more times. "What on earth possessed you to take a dip in the Thames?"

"Wasn't...by...choice," he gasped.

"Let me guess. Russian loan sharks?"

"Chinese smuggling ring."

"Sherlock..." she groaned.

"Well how was I to know they had enough people to block off both sides of the bridge?" Even sodden and pale and weak, he managed to pull off his trademark pout.

Molly rolled her eyes with a tolerant smile. "Only you, Sherlock. Only you." She patted his cheek gently and sat back on her heels. "Well, do you feel like getting up? We can catch a cab back to Baker Street."

Sherlock nodded. With Molly's help he slowly rose to his feet and staggered up the embankment towards the road. The freckle-faced Irregular shuffled a few meters away, unsure what she was to do next. "You got him now, Doctor Who?" she asked Molly.

"Yeah, I've got him." She rolled her eyes at the consulting detective and pulled out his wallet. "Here," she said, peeling off a couple banknotes, "take this and buy yourself a hot meal."

The money disappeared into the Irregular's ratty jacket. "Many thanks, Doctor Who."

"I'm not - " Molly barely started her denial before the Irregular was gone. "You know what? Fine. I'll be Doctor Who." She huffed and leaned Sherlock against a lamppost while she looked for a cab to hail. "Having a sonic screwdriver would be fantastic, honestly. I could just sonic a cab or something."

Sherlock huffed a weak laugh. "Shouldn't make...jokes...Molly."

"Half-drowned consulting detectives don't get a say."

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 ***blows the dust off this fic* It...is...ALIVE!**

 **Review please!**


	3. Back

**Back**

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When the generic ringtone first went off, nobody knew whose phone it was.

Molly, up to her elbows in a stinky drowning victim, shook her head. Lestrade and John jammed a hand in their pockets to check. Both shook their heads no. They all looked to Sherlock, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a purposely vacant look on his face.

"It's Mycroft, isn't it." John rolled his eyes. "Just answer it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"He's just going to keep calling."

"He hasn't got the stamina or patience." The phone stopped ringing, and Sherlock gave a smug smile. "See? Couldn't stay the course."

Another ringtone went off, loud and dramatic and personalized. Molly rolled her eyes and tugged off one of her gloves to touch the Bluetooth clipped to her ear. "Hello Mycroft. What is it?"

John blinked in surprise. "Star Wars' Imperial March?"

Sherlock groaned as he leaned backwards dramatically. "Typical. He can't just text me, he's got to be a drama queen and call Molly to distract me and make his point and - "

"Sherlock."

Lestrade's voice caught his attention. Sherlock looked over and saw him staring at Molly. The pathologist's face had lost all color, her ungloved hand frozen between her ear and her shoulder. Sherlock read every bit of information he could. _Frozen posture means she wasn't expecting the news. Ashen color indicates horror. Mycroft informing her means that the incident requires immediate notification -_

"Sherlock." Molly's voice sounded strangled. "It's your parents."

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was outside looking for the car Mycroft had already sent for him.

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Molly sat in the waiting room, nervously braiding a side plait in her hair over and over. It was a nervous tic from her childhood, a familiar task that let her fingers work while her mind sought to organize itself.

Sherlock was still talking to the doctors. From the look on his face, he didn't like what he was hearing.

"Doctor." A steaming cup appeared in front of her eyes. She looked up to see the elder Holmes offering the drink. "Cream, two sugars?"

As if they hadn't had tea every second Tuesday for the past two and a half years. As if he hadn't come to the morgue during random graveyard shifts bearing hot coffee. "As if you don't already know," said Molly with a smile as she accepted the cup.

Mycroft sat down beside her and took a sip of his own drink. "He hates being in the dark when it comes to family," he said, shifting his gaze to Sherlock and the doctors. "He wants all the answers right away."

"I know the feeling." Molly had a feeling he already knew this story, but she kept talking. "When my dad was diagnosed, nobody would tell me he was sick. Mum kept saying it was just a little sickness, something the doctors had to catch. I was nine, I wasn't stupid."

"When did you learn?"

"I snuck a look at his chart and looked up the words I didn't know." She sipped her coffee and sighed. "And Dad never could lie to me. He was rubbish at it."

"My condolences on your loss, Doctor." Mycroft tapped the side of his cup as he watched Sherlock grow more and more agitated. "If you'll excuse me, I need to remove the doctors from my brother's line of fire."

Molly watched as Mycroft directed Sherlock away from the doctors. When the consulting detective noticed Molly sitting on a bench, he walked over and sat beside her. "What are you still doing here?" he demanded, voice sharp as a whip.

"Waiting."

"For what?"

Molly took a long sip of her coffee. "To see if you need something."

"What could I possibly need from you?" he snarled, much like an animal. A wounded animal.

Refusing to be cowed, Molly met his gaze straight on. "I don't know right now. But when you know, I'll be here." Rare courage gave her the strength to place a hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades. "I'm always here if you need me, Sherlock."

His expression never changed, but his muscles relaxed beneath her hand. Not daring to press her luck, Molly removed her hand and took another sip of her coffee. She'd made her point. Sherlock needed to make the next move himself.

"They - " His voice was thick with emotion, croaking like a frog's. "They told me - I'm not sure what the terms mean, actually..."

Molly gave him a gentle smile. "Tell me what they said, and I'll tell you what it means."

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 **A little angst never hurt anyone. Enjoy!**

 **Review please!**


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